Disappear
by Kansas42
Summary: A story from a LONG time ago that I'm updating now. A different result for Grissom's hearing. Angst-ish.
1. Default Chapter

Disappear  
  
  
  
"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"  
  
-Leonard Shelby  
  
Memento  
  
They said it would be sudden. They said it would be complete. And it was.  
  
Complete, sudden silence.  
  
Their mouths moved, but there wasn't sound. A glass fell and shattered, but it was a cascade of beautiful silence; there was no noise. He pushed the mute button on and off on the remote control. There was no difference. He tried screaming; he could feel his blood pressure rise and his face shift from dusky to a more scarlet complexion. He knew that he could create sound.  
  
But there was still nothing. He was deaf.  
  
It hadn't happened at work, and that was good. He had only gotten home twenty minutes earlier; it had been a long, stressful day, and all he had wanted to do was kick off his shoes and relax. He had been listening to opera to soothe his emotions that he tried desperately not to show, and then it just happened. At one moment he was concentrating on the waves of the music, and then suddenly there was no music. He got up, wondering what was wrong with the stereo; he hadn't understood right away. The stereo said the CD was playing, but there was no music. He tried switching CD's, unplugging and plugging the stereo in, and even upping the volume to full blast before he began to understand what had happened. He started to stomp on the floor with his feet, and there was nothing. He started drumming his hands on the walls; he repeatedly turned on and off the water faucet, and still, still nothing. At one point, he broke a dish across the counter top, and when it sprayed silently across the kitchen, he understood the complete and sudden silence. And yet he could not accept it, and he kept breaking the dishes, throwing them across the kitchen to the far wall on the other side of the apartment, where they would connect and shatter with no noise whatsoever. He couldn't stop throwing them, as though if he threw them long enough, the silence would end, and the noise would come back. If he worked long enough, everything would flood back to how it was supposed to be, but it didn't. The silence stayed. He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He felt his throat constrict with sobbing. He could feel another glass shattering in his own hand and drawing blood from his palm and fingers to drip with the shards of glass on the cold kitchen tile. He felt all of this, but he could hear nothing.  
  
And it was over. Sudden and complete silence.  
  
He remembered closing his eyes, and then opening them suddenly, frightened like a little boy in a dark room. Because it was worse than being frightened of the boogeymen you couldn't see; when you were deaf, the whole world disappeared when you closed your eyes, and you were alone, defenseless, handicapped.  
  
Now he sat on his couch, his opera music still playing even though there was no audience to appreciate it, and he tried to reflect and make sense of things like he always did. He was calmer now, much calmer than he had been when the sudden, unanticapted storm of emotion had hit, and he tried to reason things out now, do that "Grissom" thing, as some of his co- workers called it. A part of him was still screaming that this was the end of the world, but he shushed the voice. After all, to say that deafness was the end was ludicrous. His mother had been deaf, and she had done well. And it wasn't as though he couldn't communicate. He could read and write. He could still speak. He could sign. He could read lips. Plenty of ways to communicate with the outside world, the outside world that didn't disappear when he closed his eyes. He could still touch it, still smell and taste it. The world was still there, and so was. Nothing disappeared into the darkness.  
  
But even so. . .he could not completely and suddenly silence the voice in his mind, for it brought up valid point. How would he deal with this? How could he possibly explain? What was there to say? "Gil Grissom, in to take charge of the night shift, and oh yes, I'm deaf today and from now on." What would he say? He had never told anyone about his condition. . .and it felt so wrong, saying he had a "condition". Conditions handicapped people, and he could not afford to be handicapped. Handicapped meant a loss of control. He had to have control; it was the way he managed his life. The only way. But now he would never get back that control. No matter how hard he tried, he could never regain it. It was gone now. And without that control, what did he have? Work. No, he couldn't work. Too much of the work was listening; he had explained that to the doctor. If he didn't have control and he didn't have work, what did he have?  
  
Books. He had books. He had knowledge. He had his bugs. He had art (if no music). He had roller coasters. Diversions. People? Did he have people? Friends? Family?  
  
No, he had no family left. Friends? Catherine? Sara? Warrick, Nick, Greg? Jim? Weren't these people his friends, or even his family? No, no, they weren't. He had used them as substitues, but they weren't real friends or family. simply co-workers, and they'd soon forget about him. Sure, they'd check up on him now and then. They'd drop by one by one and say, 'Hi, how are you, want something to eat. Oh, come on, my treat!', but soon they would forget him, leaving him alone in his empty, silent world. When he closed his eyes, they would simply integrate into the world and fade from view. And he'd miss them. He'd miss Nick's southern accent and his constant bartering and bantering with Warrick. He'd miss Warrick's laugh. He'd miss Catherine's dry tone and blunt philosphy on life. He'd miss Jim's bark of a voice and his companionship. He'd miss all of Greg's stupid jokes and constantly changing hair styles. Most of all, he'd miss the sound of Sarah singing as she worked, that lovely, melodic, perfect sound. Sometimes, when she was singing and so engrossed in what she was doing that she failed to notice the world around her (blind), he'd stand nearby and listen to her sing softly and wonder if he wasn't a bit in love with her. But love was complicated, uncontrollable, and he had too much in his life (work) for such complications. He needed his stability. He needed his control. But sometimes he still listened and wondered whether control was so important and if he did love her and if, in his own, unique way, loved all of his family (co-workers) a little bit for the completion of the void within him.  
  
But now he had nothing. He didn't have control. He didn't have love. He didn't have family or friends. All he had was a void. A void, and nothing could fill it. Music could fill it, but he could never hear it again. Sara's voice. . .but it was never to be heard again.  
  
How could he tell them? How could he go on without them? Without friends (co-workers) and without work (purpose), how could he possibly fill that void within him and go on, alone, in a silent world?  
  
Maybe when he closed his eyes, the world did disappear. At least, the part that mattered.  
  
And then, when the world disappeared, maybe he would fade along with it. Alone and deaf, he would be trapped inside a magic hat alongside a furry, white bunny, waiting to be let out. But he never would be let out. The world would stay outside, and he would forever be a prisoner, and he would be forgotten. And like all things for gotten, he would disappear, and that would be the end.  
  
At least, the end of all that mattered. 


	2. Somethings Wrong

Chapter 2:  
  
Disclaimer: These aren't my characters. God, how I would be rich if they were.  
  
Spoilers: Overload, the last episode who's title I can't recall  
  
  
  
Something Wrong  
  
  
  
There was something wrong with him; she could tell.  
  
Hell if she knew what it was. It was nearly impossible to know anything about Grissom, even though she had known him for a long time. She knew about his obsession with his bugs. She knew his mother had been deaf. She knew he could be a workaholic, and she knew he believed in the power of the truth. She didn't know what the hell was wrong with him.  
  
But she knew there was something.  
  
The fact that she knew something was wrong was a bad sign. It wasn't as though she were obtuse or anything (you didn't get very far in this line of work if you were, unless you were Eckley, of course), but Grissom kept almost entirely to himself. She knew he wasn't a robot; he had feelings just like everyone else. He got angry when things refused to go his way. He got confused when people couldn't see the answers right in front of them. He even laughed on a rare occasion. But Grissom was subtle about everything he did, and if he had a problem in life, you probably would never know about it unless he felt like sharing, which was a very rare occasion. Grissom wasn't good at acting like other, normal people, but he was good at acting invisible, keeping himself off radar. The fact that she knew something was actually wrong with him wasn't a good sign.  
  
It wasn't like he was running around screaming, "Help me, help me!" That really wasn't Grissom's way. As usual, he was subtle, even in pain. But she noticed it. He was more out of it than normal. She shaw him staring off into space more often, and he was slower to react to people. The other day she had to call him three times just to get his attention, and he hadn't even been doing anything. Unless he was working on a case, it was just damn near impossible to slip by without his noticing you, but lately it was like there was nothing around him. He'd also been upping his migraine pills. Grissom had once told her that he got a migraine once a year or so, but now he seemed to be getting one every few days.  
  
She had been wondering whether to ask him or not about whatever was bothering him, but she wasn't sure. She wondered maybe that she'd worked too long in this job and was beginning to see cracks in the glass when they weren't there. Wondering maybe this was all in her head, and there was nothing wrong with Grissom after all. She had wondered all that until this morning, when Grissom had called in sick.  
  
As long as she had been working with him, Grissom had called in sick once. Once. Sara had to force him to do so practically at gunpoint. He was sick on the verge of needing to go the hospital, a case of pneumonia that was much worse than the "cold" he kept shrugging it off to be. Even then, he came back far before he was ready to, and was as vigilant as ever about his work. Nick even started calling him the 'Crime Crusader'. But just yesterday she had seen him at work, and he looked just fine, despite being a little "off".  
  
Now she knew something was wrong.  
  
But what the hell was it?  
  
Work had been slow, and she had gone home early, wanting to check on her little girl. Now she was staring down at Lindsey, who was sound asleep in her bed, and wondering what the hell to do.  
  
It was strange how work somehow seemed to subsititute for family sometimes. Grissom, Sara, Nick, Warrick. All of them seemed closer than just mere co-workers; they meant so much more than that. She couldn't put them in one structure; no one fit the particular role of the mother or father or brother or cousin. Still, they all seemed to have a bond that just passed into the realm of family. She felt protective of them all somedays. She felt protective of Sara when she rushed too fast into things. It seemed Sara was going to bite more off than she could chew somedays, and she worried sometimes that Sara might eventually choke. She felt protective of Warrick too. He seemed so gentle that if you hugged him too hard, he might break. She wasn't sure why; it wasn't like he couldn't take care of himself. He certainly wasn't made of glass. Still, he seemed to exhibit this vunerable tendency, and she felt herself walk carefully around him, as though on fragile eggshells. It was Nick, though, that she worried about the most. Nick, the charmer, Nick, the Texan. She hadn't for a long time; he always seemed like a together guy. But then one day they worked a case together, and he had been so different, so angry, always jumping into conclusions. She realized with a slight laugh that he had been acting more like Sara. Finally she stopped him and asked him what was wrong, and he told her about the last minute babysitter, about the abuse. And she saw the pain in his eyes still, because how in the world does a little boy get rid of that kind of pain? She felt sorry for him, but it didn't really hit her until she came home and saw her little Lindsey, and thought about what she would do if something like that happened to her little girl. And she started crying, and she wasn't sure that she would have if Nick and the others had been just co-workers. Just regular people. Not family.  
  
It was Grissom who she really had never felt protective of. There was so little need. Somedays she worried that he was going to get himself fired for not being able to play well with others, but most of the time he seemed so self'-reliant, so individualistic, that it seemed unnecessary to look out for him. On the contrary, he seemed to be looking out for them, for her, protecting them all. She had never worried about Grissom  
  
Until now.  
  
She watched her baby turn around in her sleep and just knew, as mothers and women seem to do, that she had to do something. These people weren't her blood family, but they were a family, and she had to watch out from them, just as she would watch out for Lindsey. There was something wrong with Grissom, and he needed somebody. Everybody always does.  
  
She called the babysitter, and when the girl got there, she left and drove over to Grissom's place. She didn't go there a lot, but she knew the way well enough. She parked the car, went upstairs, and knocked on the door loud enough for the neighbors to yell back things that, on the scale of 1-10, were 11 not nice. Yet he made no response. She knocked again, but there was nothing. He either slept like the dead, or . . .  
  
She shuddered and then frowned at herself. Jesus, she was behaving like a gawky adolescent at her first campfire with a bunch of friends telling spooky stories. Something might be wrong with Grissom, but this wasn't a crime scene or anything. Still, she couldn't shake the fear that something was wrong, something that she couldn't actually think because she was too afraid it might be real. He could be. . .  
  
She opened the door, shaking away the thoughts, and immediately froze in the doorway. Glass was shattered all around the room; it looked like a kitchen fight or one of her marital fights gone to Hell. On instinct, she pulled her gun out and made her way around the room. "Grissom!" she called out to him. "Grissom! Gil!"  
  
There was no response.  
  
She walked into his bedroom. She imagined to find his body or at least a lot of blood on the ground, but there was nothing that looked unusual. She could hear water running, and turned towards the bathroom where the light was on. She felt tense, like this was a murder scene. "Grissom," she called, her voice not louder than a whisper. She shook her head in disgust. She wasn't normally this freaked out. "Grissom!"  
  
She walked slowly into the bathroom and froze again at what she saw, only this time it wasn't broken dishes. It was Grissom. He was standing over the kitchen sink, his head down, trickles of blood running down the counter. He did not turn around.  
  
"Gil," she said and moved up towards him. He wouldn't turn around. What had he done to himself? "Gil?"  
  
He jumped back as her hand touched his shoulder, his eyes wide, frightened. He hadn't heard her. Somehow, he hadn't heard her. He hadn't heard her knocking or calling for him, even when they were in the same room.  
  
"Gil," she said again, softly. She looked at his hands. He hadn't cut his wrists, like for a moment she had feared, but his palms were pretty cut up and bleeding over everything. "God, Grissom, what's going on?"  
  
He just stared at her for a couple of seconds, eyes still wide. She could practically read his thoughts in his face. Just Catherine, just Catherine. Okay, I explain this logically. Everything can be explained. Just tell her what happened, and she'll understand, and it will be normal. Just explain it logically.  
  
And then, as Grissom opened his mouth to explain logically what had happened to him and how he got to be in his bathroom, bleeding, he did something that was so unexpected that Catherine couldn't speak. Grissom opened his mouth and then suddenly, unexpectedly, started to cry. 


	3. Long Day

_this is a story i started a WAY long time ago. a different result for grissom's hearing. takes place after 2nd season finale. 4th and 5th chapter will come eventually._

Man, I knew it was gonna be a long day.  
  
I knew it, I knew it. I knew it when I woke up in the morning with my stomach in my throat and my head pounding as the curtains failed to keep the sunlight from pouring in. I knew it when I had to run to the toilet to make sure I didn't throw up on my new carpet. And I really knew it when I staggered back into my bedroom and found the mostly naked girl sleeping on my sheets.  
  
A few years ago, this wouldn't of been that big of a deal. Naked girl, bad hangover, vomit taste in mouth. . .A B C good time last night for Nicky Stokes. But now it's a little different, and all because of two people: Kristi Hopkins and Nigel Crane.  
  
Since Kristi's death, I hadn't slept around much. . .or at all. I tried to have a nice time with this red head who works in the AV lab but when we were on the date, I just choked, and ended up driving her home early. It's weird. I can't stand the idea of wasting my time on a relationship with no meaning. . .but I don't know I'm ready for any sort of relationship with meaning, a relationship where we tell each other everything, where there aren't any secrets. I'm no Grissom when it comes to mystery. . .you don't have to get through sixteen Zen riddles to find out the name of the dog I had growing up. . .but there are somethings that just don't get told. Things that are meant to stay private, stay secret.  
  
And I guess I moved out of my house a few months ago because I didn't feel like I had that privacy anymore. Nigel Crane had been everywhere, touched everywhere. He'd worn my clothes, watched me sleep. . .he must have seen both dreams and nightmares that only I was supposed to see. And I just couldn't stand living there anymore. I. . .felt his eyes on me, or something. It's stupid but true. I couldn't sleep there.  
  
So I moved. And since then, I hadn't had anyone over, even though Greg was dead set on giving me a housewarming party, which, I suspect, is more like a bachelor party with strippers and handcuffs in his mind. I don't know why I instantly cringe against the idea of having people inside my home. But I do, so I keep the doors locked. . .and now there's some blonde who I don't remember lying in my bed, with only her panties on.  
  
"It's gonna be a long day," I said to myself, and when the phone rang and Catherine said the words "It's Grissom," I really knew just how long it was gonna be.  
  
I helped the girl find her clothes before I ushured her out the door as quickly as I could without seeming like a total asshole. Apparantly the effort was wasted because she screamed all sorts of things at me but my head hurt just a bit too much to really care. I got dressed and looked in the mirror, seeing how not GQ I looked, but left anyway without bothering to shave. Catherine made it sound pretty urgent, whatever it was. She hadn't said exactly what was wrong with Grissom, except for the fact that he wasn't dying or anything.  
  
God, I didn't want to go into work today. I didn't want Grissom to see me like this.  
  
To my surprise, I didn't have to. When I got to the lab, Catherine, Sara, and Warrick were all there, waiting, but Grissom was nowhere in sight. I sat down on the couch and during a brief moment of silence, I wondered again what could be wrong with him. Everybody had noticed to one degree or another that Grissom had been a little off lately, like he was in his own world all of the time. Or more so than normal, I guess. No one in their right mind would ever describe Grissom as ordinary. He races cockroaches, for Christsake.  
  
When the moment of silence appeared that it was going to stretch on for awhile, I finally decided to say, "So, what's the stich, Cath? What's going on?". This prompted Sara and Warrick to make half a dozen guesses, all to which Catherine shook her head and finally held up her hands to shut everybody up again. When we did, Catherine took a breath and decided against sugarcoating it for us.  
  
"Grissom's gone deaf."   
  
A chorus of "whats?" (Sara), "huh?" (me), and "what the hell are you talking about?" (Warrick), prompted Catherine to put up her hands again and we all settled down. Catherine looked down at the ground for a minute and then back up at us. She had that clear, cold look she gets sometimes when she's trying to show off how tough she is, how she doesn't need help. That look, that I'm the Biggest Bitch in the Room and You Better Back Off look, is never a good sign because it's almost always a silent lie.   
  
"He's got otosclerosis. It's a hereditary disease of the ear, something he got from his mother, who also went deaf very early. Right now, Grissom's in the hospital, staying overnight to have some tests run and to observe for signs of progress, but it's pretty clear cut: Grissom's gone deaf completely and permanently. There's nothing anyone can do."  
  
The moment of silence from before came back and this time I didn't break it. The four of us sat in silence for a long time until Warrick, unable to keep quiet any longer, finally asked, "So, what's going to happen? To the lab, I mean---is he going to stay on? CAN he even stay on and still be the boss?"  
  
"We don't know yet," Catherine said. She rubbed her forehead unconsciously and I realized she looked tired, about as tired as I felt. "For right now while he's in the hospital, I'm going to take over, but as for any sort of permanent replacement, if there is one, is unknown. That's going to be up to Covallo to decide."  
  
"Oh, we might as well have Ecklie take over, then," I said without thinking. "Covallo hates Grissom."  
  
"I know it," Catherine said drily, "but it's what we got. Anyway, Grissom figured you'd guys would have to know what's going on. Speaking of which, I have to go see if he's okay so----"  
  
Without bothering to finish the sentence, Catherine left the room, and Warrick, Sara, and I just sat there in silence.  
  
I felt like I had to say something. I was the optimistic one of the group, the "naive" one, everyone says, the people person, and I felt obligated to say something to try and cheer the other two up, to spark some hope in. After all, if naive Nicky doesn't think everything's going to be okay, then the world must just be at an end, right?  
  
God, I was tired.  
  
"Don't worry, guys," I said. "They won't fire Grissom, they can't. I mean, sure they'll have to make readjustments but come on, man, it's Grissom. He'll always be here."   
  
"Yeah," Warrick said, his voice sounding heavy, "always."  
  
Warrick stood up and left. Sara sat for a minute, as if frozen, but also got up, never once looking at me, her thoughts all on for Grissom. Well, some things never change, I suppose.  
  
I looked at the clock. It was barely eleven in the morning.  
  
A long damn day, and it wasn't anywhere near over yet


End file.
